


In Which Cronus Finds Relief From An Athhole

by Niji_Hitomi_Iscariot



Series: Tumblr Drabbles [2]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Caliginous Romance | Kismesis, Come Inflation, Eggpreg, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Oviposition, Recuperacoon Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-23
Updated: 2014-08-23
Packaged: 2018-02-14 10:11:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2187810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Niji_Hitomi_Iscariot/pseuds/Niji_Hitomi_Iscariot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He grins and kisses you, all teeth and forked tongue, before you can say anything and pushes you against the back rim of the ‘coon. You sort of yelp a little, at least until he gets those wicked hands around your thoracic gills, then you’re moaning into the kiss and grabbing his shirt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Which Cronus Finds Relief From An Athhole

When you wake up, you immediately feel something is off. Everything is sluggish and you’re not in your usual recuperacoon. Snatches of the night before flash through your pan like photographs on Bubblr, and you groan, holding your head with your hair hanging down in your eyes. You feel approximately like a well-worn C-string, with all the tension of the set right before you snap coiling around your gut.

And your bulge is out.

That isn’t really much of a surprise, you often wake up with a…what’s that human term you learned? Boner? No, something with wood. Wood something, or something wood? You can’t remember in your current sopor-muzzled state, but you’re used to have your shameglobes aching for a good self-pailing session first thing in the evening. But you aren’t at home, where the slurry would just filter out if you broke out the nookworm and went at it. So you groan again.

This time it apparently gets somebody’s attention because the next thing you know you’re staring face to face with Tuna-town’s post-scratch self in all his gloriously disgusting lewdness. He grins and kisses you, all teeth and forked tongue, before you can say anything and pushes you against the back rim of the ‘coon. You sort of yelp a little, at least until he gets those wicked hands around your thoracic gills, then you’re moaning into the kiss and grabbing his shirt.

"You ready thith time, wriggler?" He asks, all lispy and uncool, but it does something to your nook that makes you hungry in a way you really don’t recognize.

All you can do is whimper, though you don’t quite know why.

He climbs in with you, shucking his jumpsuit as he goes, and it’s all tangled limbs and boney elbows until he settles into place between your thighs. You still aren’t exactly sure what’s going on, but your wriggly likes it, curling between you looking for either his nook or his freakishly doubled bulge. You remember learning that last night. Eventually one of the two tentacles wraps around yours while the other worms its way into your nook, and dear jegus god the Incandescence be praised you didn’t know you were that needy.

He pumps into you two times. The hell is up with Captors and the number two, seriously? Then you feel the base of his bulge swell. You almost panic but your body is going oh hell the fuck yes, gripping that fleshy bulb like its trying to keep it inside you. Somewhere between that and darkness you feel it start to move up his bulge, pressing against your inner walls and nerves like the most perfect coil of sex-flesh you’ve ever felt. You moan out loud, but there’s something wrong with your shameglobes, because they won’t let you release. The pleasure just builds and builds.

One of those bulges becomes two, then three, and you feel them, each and every one, push up and into you, slipping out of the tip of his tentacle along with a rush of very warm fluid thanks to how much difference there is between you and his on the hemospectrum. You whine and whimper, clawing at him, as your genetic material bladder swells, being pumped full of those whatever they are that he’s depostiing in you. You lose count when he floods you with the first of his two orgasms. (You swear, Captors and two! The fuck?!)

When you come back to your senses, somewhere long after midnight, your gut is so full if you rest a hand on it, you swear you can feel the individual eggs. Slightly squishy from the slurry mixed into it, but mostly hard and heavy, forcing your bulge out simply because there’s just no room within your pelvis for it and the eggs. You look up at him, blurry and feeling trapped somewhere between afterglow and orgasm, and he just smiles that toothy, insufferable, trademark Captor grin, rubbing your belly just a bit too hard for comfort. He takes your moan as one of pleasure and pulls his hand away.

"Ah ah ah, no cumming until the eggth are ready to bee laid. Then you’ll need all the thlurry you can make, fifthboy." He winks at you, and leaves you in the coon, and you don’t even have the wherewithal to flare your fins at him.


End file.
